Chapter 21

Whiterun is embroiled in the throes of zealous celebration. Although official funerary ceremonies for the Hold's fallen warriors haven't yet been organized, many townspeople are already taking the initiative to host their own wakes and gatherings. Jarl Balgruuf ordered the city gates to be reopened to the public after the dragon's demise, which has resulted in even more people than usual being packed within the walls.

The city is alight with hundreds of bonfires blazing in the streets, suffused with the rich scents of roasting pork and mulled wine, and inundated with the discordant melodies of a few more types of instruments than Mull would've thought existed – an eclectic assortment of throaty woodwinds, resonant drums, and twanging strings.

And the celebrations aren't restricted to the commoners. The aristocratic denizens of the Cloud District are partaking as well.

Mull has been sitting at one of the long tables in the main hall of Dragonsreach for the last couple of hours, waiting for his upcoming audience with the Jarl and trying to enjoy the ongoing feast in the meantime. It's been difficult. The place is crammed full of carousing Nords and has been a veritable den of revelry since long before he arrived. Garlands of snowberry are strung all across the place, hanging from rafters and crawling up columns. The maids and other serving staff are scrambling to keep up with their guests' demands.

He's probably the only guest in Dragonsreach who isn't enjoying himself. Maybe it's because of his lack of sleep during his stay in the Sanctuary of Kyne, or the lingering exhaustion from his recovery – or the dream of Mirmulnir, he unhappily acknowledges – but he simply isn't in the mood for this frivolity. He's always been something of a stick in the mud compared to many other men he's known over the years, true enough, but those who fail to enjoy free food and merry company are few and far between. Tonight however, it would seem he's one of those few.

To accentuate that point, a man stumbles into him from behind and nearly knocks him from his seat, coming dangerously close to dumping a tankard of some foul-smelling liquor all over him. The man laughs and slurs an apology, but Mull shoves him back with an angry curse. The man careens away and is reabsorbed into the crowd, vanishing without a trace.

Mull grumbles with annoyance and returns to nursing his own drink, ignoring the startled looks he garners from his table's other occupants. Most of these people are important in some way or another, whether that be through wealth, status, or strength of arms. They're high society despite whatever their unruly carousing might suggest. Mull isn't any of those things, and for that reason sticks out like a sore thumb.

His neighbors' alarmed attention doesn't last long as a brawl erupts on the other side of the central hearth. The sharp impacts of bare knuckles against flesh are loud enough to quickly draw an audience, many of whom chant or shout their encouragement. As he watches from the corner of his eye, one of the combatants trips over an unseen obstacle and goes tumbling head over heels, narrowly avoiding a roundhouse swing from his opponent. The crowd roars with raucous laughter at the amateurish spectacle.

Not for the first time, he wonders why the gods decided to punish the other races of Tamriel by making the Nords the way they are. He firmly ignores the fact that his own father was one of said Nords. I hardly knew him, so I don't think it counts.

Ten long minutes later, Irileth shoves her way through the viscid throng and indicates for him to follow with a severe gesture. He gratefully obliges, not at all disappointed to be leaving the feast behind. I need to buy her a pint for getting me out of this mess. I don't know how many more drunken fistfights I could bear watching. There's nothing wrong with watching a good fight, but good fights and drunken fights are mutually exclusive in his book.

They pick their way through the crowd and ascend a flight of stairs to the second story of Dragonsreach, where they navigate a network of hallways. The sounds of feasting and fighting fade into the background. He vaguely recognizes this area of Dragonsreach from when he first delivered news of Helgen to the Jarl.

Unlike the last time he and Irileth saw each other, they're both now in significantly better health. His voice is only somewhat scratchy, like the final stages of a cold or a night of hard drinking, rather than completely unintelligible. And gods be praised for that, because there's a whole hell of a lot that I want to talk about. For her part, Irileth is walking without even the tiniest hitch in her stride.

But before they can reach their destination, he and the Dunmer are ambushed by a squadron of maids and dragged into a parlor without warning or explanation. Before he knows what's happening, he's being shoved into a chair and surrounded by women with polished mirrors, bottles of unknown liquids, and a concerningly large number of sharp implements. They begin their gruesome work without fanfare, not giving him enough time to get his bearings and muster a defense.

His beard is the first to suffer their ministrations. It's poked, prodded, trimmed, and sculptured into something horrific, like what he'd expect to see on a pompous Nibenean mage-lord with too much time and money. He grimaces at the appalling sight, and so too does the reflection looking back at him in the mirrors.

Then they seize his hair with their ruthless claws, yanking it in directions it isn't supposed to go and tutting disapprovingly about how tangled he's allowed it to become. It feels like they're about to tear off his scalp. Soap and water are liberally applied, leaving him steeped in the scent of lavender and his head covered in bubbles as they scrub without mercy.

As he watches with growing horror, the women begin weaving strands of no-longer-greasy hair into Nordic braids. He eventually forces himself to look away from his reflection. This is ridiculous. Are they trying to crush his pride? If this is the fashion among Nord men, how are they able to live with themselves?

It doesn't stop there. They pluck at his eyebrows. They dab moisturizing salves on his palms and the callouses of his fingers. They even file his nails, as if anyone would notice!

When his torment has finally concluded and the mirrors are thrust insistently in his face, the visage glaring back at him is, in a word, outrageous. His beard and locks of ornamented hair would complement the image of a prancy aristocrat, but his crooked nose and tanned skin crisscrossed with scars simply make it look out of place. Like putting makeup and ribbons on a dog, he thinks wryly.

With their work now finished, the gaggle of women gather their tools, deposit a pile of clothes on a nearby stool, and depart. When the door closes behind the last of them and their chattering voices recede, he realizes he's now alone in the room.

He reluctantly undresses and pulls on the new outfit – careful not to disturb his waxed beard or twisted braids. If he messes them up, he wouldn't put it past those vile hags to force him back into that chair and redo it all over again.

He drapes his old clothes over the stool, takes a look around to make sure he isn't forgetting anything, and stops in front of a mirror on his way out the door. He's now clad in an embroidered heather-gold tunic, a woolen vest, fine trousers girt with an amadou belt, and calfskin boots – an outfit that's collectively worth more than a Cyrodiilic stallion by his humble estimation.

He shakes his head and exits the parlor, lost for words.

Irileth is waiting for him. She's dressed in a similar outfit with the exception of a knee-length skirt in place of the trousers. It's strange to see her wearing anything other than her usual boiled leather.

Her rust-red hair has been arranged in an intricate topknot flowing down into a curtain of braids. It takes all of his willpower to stifle his laughter – at least they didn't do that to him. Laughing aloud at a member of the Morag Tong, formerly or otherwise, wouldn't make for a good way to die.

"Let us go," she stiffly orders, clearly not in the mood for dawdling. She turns on her heel and marches down the hallway, not bothering to wait for him. He doggedly follows, his mirth subsiding as he thinks about the audience ahead of him.

Now that he thinks about it, this treatment is extremely suspicious. He didn't get dressed up for any of his previous interactions with the Jarl. What's different now?

…A lot of things obviously. But what specifically? Do they want something else from him now?

When you're dealing with somebody stronger or more powerful than yourself, it always pays to look presentable. They're less likely to slit your throat and leave you lying in a ditch. But that doesn't really apply to this situation, seeing as Balgruuf is the one who provided said clothes. So what's the game here?

A few twists and turns later, they approach a gilded doorway flanked by noble guardsmen. They make no move to stop them as Irileth leads the way into the chamber beyond.

Inside the next room – the Jarl's study, he realizes – are Balgruuf, Hrongar, Farengar, and a vaguely familiar Cyrod he identifies as Proventus Avenicci, the steward of Dragonsreach. The four men pause their rather loud discussion to examine Mull as he enters the room with varying levels of expectation, skepticism, and unease. He caught some of their conversation from outside the door and distinctly heard his name mentioned several times. As such, he can only assume this upcoming chat will required more participation than just a few hellos and how-are-yous. He isn't looking forward to that.

This gathering is much less festive than the one in the great hall below. There are no decorations, no scent of mead and food, and no roaring hearths. The study is utilitarian, lacking embellishment save for a few maps tacked onto the walls and cream-yellow banners dangling from the rafters. Woven rugs are spread across the floor. Illumination is provided by candles atop sconces and a pair of wrought iron chandeliers overhead, sending shadows dancing across the lofty ceiling. A stuffed bear's head is framed above the door, watching the proceedings with beady black eyes.

Here we go. Mull steels himself for whatever lies ahead, keenly aware that the outcome could be an unwanted introduction to the inside of a prison cell. After having been coerced into going to the Western Watchtower against his will, he isn't sure what kind of treatment he'll receive from the Jarl, but he's already planning for the worst.

Proventus speaks first, his crisp Cyrodiilic accent laced with terse annoyance. "Good, you're finally here. The Jarl has been waiting for you."

By no fault of my own. He disregards the man in favor of glancing to Irileth. She subtly nods in Balgruuf's direction, sitting at a stout wooden table with his broad hands steepled. He looks tired, with dark-ringed eyes and a messy beard, but not nearly to the same degree as before the battle against the dragon.

The Jarl doesn't wait to be addressed. He thankfully gets straight to the point. "I've called you to Dragonsreach because I'd like to hear your description of events at the watchtower. We've received reports that offer conflicting information to varying degrees, some of which suggest happenings more befitting fairytales than a battlefield. To be frank with you, I've grown weary of parsing through the nonsense. So tell me forthrightly, if you will…" Balgruuf leans forward, his craggy features drawn tight with intensity. "What exactly happened out there?"

I'm assuming they already know most of the specifics. He decides that keeping things simple never hurt anyone, least of all himself. He fixes his features into a dispassionate mask as he responds, holding his inflection to a minimum in the same way he'd answer a restless bandit chieftain. "The watchtower was destroyed, but we were able to kill the dragon."

Proventus scoffs at his brevity, but the Jarl simply nods. "I knew I could count on Irileth and Hrongar. And Caius, may Kyne rest his soul," he unhappily adds. "It was a mighty victory, undoubtedly worthy of whatever tales the hearth-skalds may deign to concoct. But surely there's more to it than that."

Mull frowns. Aye, unfortunately there is. A lot more.

For starters, as far as he's aware, there isn't anyone in this city besides himself who was at Helgen during its destruction. As such, he can confidently assume that nobody else has made the same deduction about Mirmulnir and the dragon from Helgen being two different creatures. That's an important piece of information, and probably something the Jarl would like to be made aware of.

His intuition is telling him that engendering some goodwill from Balgruuf might not be a bad idea. Staying off the shitlist of the most powerful man in a hundred mile radius could only be a boon to his continued good health.

The question is whether answering honestly here will do that, or backfire and make the Jarl upset. Lords can be finicky from what he's seen so far. You never know how they'll react. Is it worth the risk to be the bearer of bad news?

He doesn't think so. And besides, did Balgruuf and his thrice-damned housecarl treat with him honesty when they ordered him to the watchtower? No, they didn't. Under normal circumstances, he'd feel perfectly justified in treating them with the same obstinacy.

But this is a special case. It's a dragon they're talking about. After seeing the things he saw at Helgen, feeling that helplessness, and then going through it all over again at the watchtower, the caustic flames of spite and anger flickering within his chest are pale wisplights in comparison to the firestorm of fear looming overhead. This knowledge is worth sharing and he can't rationally convince himself otherwise. He's genuinely worried about how the Jarl will react, but it is what it is. Might as well yank out the tooth and be done with it.

He chews idly on his mustache as he considers what to say, drawing a few affronted glares from the non-Nords in the room for his lack of decorum. "…Do you want the good news or the bad news first?"

Balgruuf's forehead wrinkles in confusion at the brusque nonsequitur. "How do you mean, son?"

"Before we get to everything else, there are still a couple of things you need to hear from me. Which do you want first? The good or the bad?"

The Jarl shifts uncertainly in his chair. "The bad first, I suppose."

Alright then. "The dragon we killed at the watchtower wasn't the same dragon as the one at Helgen. That one's still flying around somewhere."

Shocked and disheartened silence descends on the room, broken only by a few choice curses from Irileth. It's about the reaction he expected.

"You're certain of this?" Hrongar demands.

"Aye." More certain than just about anything else recently.

The Jarl sighs heavily and leans forward on his desk. "So this isn't over then," he says resignedly. "Of course it wouldn't be so easy. When the gods elect to test our resolve, it seems they don't second-guess themselves." After several seconds of morose contemplation, he eventually looks up. "And the good news?"

"If the dragon from Helgen had been the one at the watchtower, we'd all be dead," Mull flatly states.

That's a foregone conclusion. The vaunted might of the Imperial Legion failed to bring down that black monstrosity at Helgen – it wasn't even close, from what he could tell during the confusion of his desperate scramble to escape. That dragon was physically larger too. The battle at the watchtower was a bloody mess, no doubt about that, but all things considered they got lucky. Very, very lucky.

Proventus anxiously licks his lips. "Is that so?" Around them, the others react with varying degrees of frustration and worry.

He scuffs a luxurious boot against the thickly carpeted floor and softens his expression as much as he's able. He isn't being facetious. He's only speaking the facts as he sees them. "…Aye. It is."

"That isn't good news," Farengar mutters weakly. Hrongar agrees with a dour nod.

"…Well, let's put aside these grim pronouncements for the time being," the Jarl suggests. "There will be a time and place to give these matters the attention they deserve – very soon, I imagine – but for now, I'd rather like to hear more about the dragon's demise. We've already heard much of what took place during and after our victory, but I still want you to give your own recounting."

Farengar noticeably perks up at the mention of the dragon. The atmosphere in the room was swiftly growing oppressive, so Mull doesn't begrudge the Jarl's redirection. He did his due diligence by saying what needed to be said. How they handle that information isn't any of his business.

On to the next, then. There's no doubt in his mind that the Jarl is asking-without-asking about the circumstances of Mirmulnir's death and the ensuing Dragonborn Bullshit. There's no other reason he would bother wasting time with these questions. Irileth would've certainly told them everything beforehand.

As much as he's loath to discuss it, a hint of awe still creeps into his voice. "A lot of men died to bring down the dragon. It was a hard fight, much harder than any I've been in before. I'm sure you already know the details. But it was after the dragon died that things really turned strange. Its body… dissolved somehow, like it caught on fire from the inside and burned away. I've never seen anything like it."

He pauses apprehensively. The Jarl motions for him to continue.

"Then a few things happened that I didn't understand. I'm not sure what to say, to be honest. I apparently ate the dragon's soul," he snorts.

Saying it aloud in the presence of these people makes it seem all the more outrageous. He waits for his words to be greeted with a round of humored smiles or tolerant chuckles, but there are none. The expressions of the room's occupants remain steadfastly grave.

He isn't going to mention anything about Mirmulnir's voice in his head or their midnight dalliance. He doesn't need any more attention, negative or otherwise, than he's already getting.

"And…" He doesn't want to say this next bit, seeing as it's the most outrageous of it all, but he knows he needs to. Even if it's completely absurd, it's also the most potentially significant part of this mess. "According to your men, I might be Dragonborn. That's what they were saying after the dragon's body burned up. I, uh… I did absorb something from it. I think. Like in the legends."

That thing being Mirmulnir's spirit, if he's to be believed.

"It's difficult to put into words, but it looked like… a cloud. Or a haze of smoke from a bonfire, but it was all these different colors rolled up together into one. The way it moved was bizarre, almost like a living thing slithering through the air. And it was loud too. If I heard it without seeing it, I would've thought it was a blast of wind from an oncoming storm. Then the smoke or whatever it was… it went into me. It didn't feel like anything. It wasn't actually a gust of wind, but it just…" He taps his sternum, not sure how else to convey it. "Went inside me, right here."

Balgruuf leans back and dons a contemplative expression.

"So the wizard was right…" Hrongar rumbles.

Mull's eyes dart to Farengar. "Right about what?"

The wizard glares at Hrongar before turning his gaze firmly to the floor, clearly not intending to answer the question.

Oh no you don't. Not again. "Farengar…" he softly growls. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

The wizard begins inching towards the door.

Mull starts to say something along the lines of 'You'd better start talking if you know what's good for you,' but Balgruuf interrupts before he can further pursue his suspicions. "Young man, what precisely do you know about the Dragonborn?"

He grudgingly refocuses and considers the question, leaving the wizard for later. He'll throw the Jarl a bone, but he shouldn't reveal too much of what he learned about this from Mirmulnir. That might raise unwanted questions. "They're legendary heroes of the Nords and all Men, those blessed by the gods to wield the power of the Voice. That's what I remember from the old stories, anyways." He coughs. "I haven't heard those in a long time, so I could be wrong."

Hrongar speaks up. "You remember rightly boy, no worries there. Though don't forget that mighty Talos himself, Ysmir Stormcrown, was also Dragonborn. The greatest of them all." He puffs out his chest, proud to recall the Hero-god of Mankind, though the image is sullied by his pallid skin and somewhat lopsided stance courtesy of his missing arm. Proventus rolls his eyes but says nothing.

The Jarl ignores his brother to share a quick look with Irileth, so fast that Mull might've imagined it. "And on that note, was there anything else… unusual… that happen after the dragon died?"

Mull nervously scratches his beard. There's still one thing he hasn't mentioned, perhaps the most obvious of them all. "I might've somehow used the Voice. I don't know for sure, but that's what Irileth's men were saying. It's the reason I couldn't talk for a few days, and why I still sound like this." He gestures to his throat.

Again, Balgruuf looks like he knew the answer beforehand. "Ah, so it is true then. The Greybeards really must have been summoning you."

The change in subject leaves him puzzled. "The Greybeards?"

"Masters of the Way of the Voice. They dwell in seclusion high on the slopes of the Throat of the World," the Jarl clarifies. "That strange commotion the morning after the battle was the Voice of the Greybeards. I'm sure you heard it, as did the entire city."

He blinks. With everything else that's going on, he'd honestly forgotten about that. "That was the Greybeards? The monks of High Hrothgar?"

There are very few people in Tamriel who haven't heard of the Greybeards. They're Nord hermits who use the Voice and were supposedly the teachers of Tiber Septim when he was still a mortal man. They're an integral part of the Talos mythos, to such an extent that even Mull in all his ignorance knows a few basic facts about them.

Balgruuf nods gravely. "They are known to many across the Empire, though their fame is lesser than it once was. How much do you know of them?"

"I heard a little about the Greybeards when I was a child. They're great Tongues who dwell in a hermitage on the tallest mountain in the world. That's a tale I remember well." His expression darkens as he returns to the topic at hand. "So… if you're right, then what do the Greybeards want from me?"

This time it's Hrongar who answers. "The Dragonborn is uniquely gifted in the Voice, the ability to focus their vital essence into a Thu'um, or Shout. It's very different from all other forms of magic. If you truly are Dragonborn, then the Greybeards can teach you how to use your gift. Some might say it's their obligation to do so."

"I apologize that we don't have more to offer on this," interjects Balgruuf. "The library of Dragonsreach was once much greater than it is now, but many things were lost during the chaos of the Oblivion Crisis, knowledge first and foremost – both of the mundane and arcane varieties. There may be sources of information available in other places, such as our Sanctuary of Jhunal, but they're a notoriously secretive order, and Farengar has assured me that they know scarcely more than us. No, the best place for you to go would be High Hrothgar. It's one of Skyrim's most renowned centers of learning, so I'm sure the Greybeards would be more than able to answer whatever questions you might have, especially seeing as they've already summoned you." He frowns thoughtfully. "The College of Winterhold may have knowledge to share as well. Frankly, there are few Nords who wouldn't be willing to offer what assistance they can to the Dragonborn."

"Wait, wait," Mull holds up his hands for the man to slow down. "You think – really, honestly think – that I'm Dragonborn? That the Greybeards were actually summoning me with that… Shout?" His skepticism leaks into his tone. Despite all of the supportive evidence he's seen and heard so far, he still can't comprehend the idea. I mean… me? Seriously?

"We do," Balgruuf replies without hesitation. "In fact, we've suspected as much ever since Farengar informed us of your inexplicable ability to read the dragon-runes. He claimed that one of the most likely explanations for this – assuming you're not some sort of illustrious scholar in disguise, which I frankly doubt – is that you could be Dragonborn. He also revealed his decision to test that theory by sending you to Bleak Falls Barrow." The Jarl turns a baleful eye to his court wizard. "A stupid idea to be sure, but thankfully you returned to us in one piece. Had you not, there would've been Oblivion to pay for such a heinous misstep."

"Dragon-runes? Wait…"

The pieces begin to fall into place, fitting together one at a time. This must be why the wizard was so tight-lipped and elusive after his return from the barrow. This is what he refused to divulge, claiming that his mysterious female acquaintance wouldn't be pleased if Mull discovered their shared secret. Maybe this is the true reason Balgruuf and Irileth were so adamant about sending him to the watchtower. He thought it was strange from the beginning that they would so highly regard a complete stranger and an unknown variable, even if he'd previously lived through a dragon attack. But it all ultimately traces back to the wizard and his refusal to provide so much as a hint at what was going on. He's the reason Mull has been kept in the dark this entire time.

Now cognizant of Farengar's transgressions, he whirls on the smaller man in the blink of an eye. "Damn you, wizard! Is this what you and that woman were hiding from me? That I could've been Dragonborn?!" Furious indignation flares scorchingly within him as he advances on the wizard. "Why in Shor's name didn't you say something? Isn't this just a little important?!"

Farengar shrinks away from his outburst, but Irileth steps between them and puts a hand to Mull's chest, holding him back from tearing the wizard limb from limb. Her glare is enough to stop him in his tracks, though barely. The fear he still feels at the sight of this former Morag Tong is temporarily potent enough to overtake his fury.

Grr. Those eyes really are intimidating, dammit.

In the meantime, having tuned out their noisy exchange, Hrongar continues discoursing about the Greybeards to whoever might still be listening. "The Voice of the Greybeards really has summoned you to High Hrothgar! I can't believe it. To see something like this in our day and age is an incredible honor indeed. This hasn't happened in… centuries at least, not since Tiber Septim himself received their teachings when he was still Talos of Atmora!"

Proventus cuts him off. "Hrongar, please calm yourself. What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with our friend here? Capable as he may be, I don't see any signs of him being Dragonborn."

Hrongar looms over the smaller man. His face twists into a scowl. "Nord nonsense?! Why you puffed-up ignorant…! These are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire!"

Deciding that this chaos has gone on long enough, Balgruuf pounds a fist against his table for silence before things can get more out of hand. "Hrongar! Don't be so hard on Avenicci. He knows not our ways."

The Cyrod steward instantly adopts a conciliatory tone. "And I meant no disrespect, of course. It's just that… I can't help but wonder, what could these Greybeards want with him?"

The Jarl purses his lips and turns to Mull, who takes the hint and cuts short his staring contest with Irileth while Farengar remains cowering behind her. "That is the Greybeards' business, not ours. Whatever happened when that dragon was killed, it revealed something in you and the Greybeards heard it. If they think you're Dragonborn and the signs indicate as much, then who are we to say otherwise?"

He waves to dismiss the topic.

"That can be discussed later. For now, the fact remains that you have done a great service for me and my city, Dragonborn. Greater than my words can express. With your aid, we have slain a dragon and saved thousands of lives. Needless to say, this is no mean feat."

Mull's brow twitches, though he stays quiet. The Jarl's praise is one of the last things he wants to hear at the moment, knowing now the exact manner in which he was manipulated and why. Being addressed as Dragonborn also rankles him more than he'd like to admit.

"Therefore, by my right as Jarl, and as recompense for your heroic and valiant deeds, I hereby name you a Thane of Whiterun. It is the greatest honor in my power to grant to a man of your station. You'll be assigned a personal Housecarl and you may choose a weapon from my armory to serve as your badge of office. No longer are you a mere common man and nor do you remain a stranger in our city. With this declaration, you are now a member of my court in full, and access to all of the requisite benefits and honors are yours to be used at your discretion. We are honored to have you as a Thane of our Hold, Dragonborn." With that, Balgruuf respectfully inclines his head.

What?

Silence reigns. The only person who doesn't seem utterly shocked by the Jarl's pronouncement is Hrongar.

Irileth, Farengar, and Proventus each begin speaking at once.

"Balgruuf, I must protest! I cannot in good conscience condone such recklessness!"

"My lord, you can't mean to do this!"

"My Jarl, are you truly certain that you wish for this man to be made a Thane of our city?"

After several seconds of the three clamoring loudly over one another, the Jarl's patience eventually expires. "Enough!" he barks.

His subordinates immediately cease and desist, falling into line like beaten dogs with their tails between their legs.

Mull remains reticently stone-faced though it all. His current thoughts on the matter would assuredly be considered extremely disrespectful if they were said aloud. He's smart enough to know when it's better to keep his mouth shut. Most of the time.

Balgruuf lets out a long sigh and raises a hand to his brow. "I've already made my decision. Abide by it." He then gives Mull a searching look. Off to the side, Hrongar does the same.

Behind his bland expression, his mind is whirling in a desperate attempt to process everything he's learned over the course of this audience. If he understands the situation, it's the Jarl's intention to name him a Thane. After he and Irileth's reactions toward his initial refusal to join the watchtower expedition, this announcement seems like nothing less than a slap in the face. They forced me to go out there and almost die for the sake of their city, and now they're trying to sweep that under the rug by rewarding me for it?! Oh, but not just any reward. They're going to make me a Thane! A Thane! Sure, they still owe me a wagon full of money for agreeing to their suicide pact in the first place, but something like this… I mean, what in Oblivion?

Thanes are advisors, landowners, and sometimes commanders of men. Mull is no expert, obviously – that can be said for a lot of things – but he's at least superficially knowledgeable of a Thane's role in Nord society. He met a Thane in Bruma once. The man and his subordinates were trying to hunt down his gang at the time. It… didn't end well.

That is what Balgruuf is asking him to be. The exact opposite of the only thing he's ever been. From what's been said so far, he's assuming he'll be expected to serve the Jarl for the foreseeable future. That's what it means to be a Thane. But whether or not he's willing to chain himself in such a fashion is up for debate, to say the least.

Over the past few days, the only reason he hasn't been festering with white-hot anger towards Irileth and Balgruuf is the simple fact that he's been too relieved to still be alive. And of course, Mirmulnir jabbering in his ear day in and day out was a little higher on his list of immediate concerns, as was his inability to speak due to his throat injury. But now that he's here and the prospect of being a Thane is dangling in front of his face, that anger finally takes center stage. He's never been much good at forgetting and forgiving, especially where it concerns those who have wronged him.

On top of that, there's one other thing in particular that stands head and shoulders above the rest, something he still can't reconcile. He hasn't forgotten about it. That's for damn sure. Now the Jarl and his cronies are saying I'm Dragonborn, just like everybody else. Why are they all so convinced? Don't they see it doesn't even make sense? I'm not some mythical Dragonborn. I'm just… not.

For what it's worth, his willingness to entertain the possibility has increased over the course of this meeting. The more they discuss the plethora of inexplicable events that took place over the past few weeks, the more clearly he perceives the invisible strings binding them all together. Too many things have happened that couldn't be rationally explained any other way. The dragon-runes. The whispers at the black wall in Bleak Falls Barrow. The vision at the watchtower. The Shout. Mirmulnir's voice in his head. The Greybreads' call. The dream last night.

Two or even three of these might be a coincidence, but so many? He doesn't want to believe it, but he's forced to admit that logic dictates otherwise.

Unfortunately for everybody involved, he's never been a very logical man.

This, this has got to be the most laughable thing I've ever heard in my entire life. What a godsdamn farce. One emotion predominates. He isn't just angry anymore. He's furious.

To him, it seems that the gods must be the biggest fucking idiots in the entire Mundus if he of all people is apparently a Dragonborn of legend. It's actually sickening. Bile rises in his throat and he forces it back down with a pained grimace. The gods couldn't possibly be that stupid! There's no way they would choose somebody like me. What reason for that could there possibly be?!

"I need some time to think about this…" Not bothering to listen for whatever response his muttered statement receives, he leans heavily against the table and bows his head, staring sightlessly at the swirling patterns of woodgrain crisscrossing the lacquered surface as his thoughts turn inwards.

How many legends has he heard about Dragonborn heroes? How many songs? How many boisterous retellings and solemn recitations in taverns, on city streets, or around a campfire? There are too many to choose from, all across the circuitous breadth of Tamrielic history.

The ancient Nordic Dragonborn warriors that first sailed to Skyrim from distant Atmora, his father's ancestors who vanquished the Snow Elves and drove away the dragons of old.

Saint Alessia, the slave-turned-queen who forged the First Empire from the smoldering ashes of their iniquitous Elven overlords.

Reman Cyrodiil, the divine Light of Man and the founder of the Second Empire upon the glimmer-edged swords of Akavir.

Most recently there's Tiber Septim, who requires no introduction. The man who is now called Talos Stormcrown, the Hero-God of Mankind.

And then to compare such luminous tales of glory and heroism to… himself. Mull the bandit. Ruair Gudarsson, whose already innocuous life has been reduced to a shadow of what it once was. It's nothing short of revolting, little more than a bad joke to be ignored or reviled. Nothing more, nothing less.

Surely there are many thousands of people running around Tamriel who would be a better fit for the mantle of a gods-blessed hero. Brave legionaries and noble warriors, wise councilors and erudite mages, or even the Emperor himself. Why not them? For what reason would they not be deserving of the gods' greatest blessings?

That's the thing. They would. They absolutely would, much more so than himself. That's the reason he can't bring himself to accept this burgeoning travesty. It simply doesn't make sense.

A plethora of thoughts and memories emerge from the molasses of time, rising to the forefront of his mind. Some are many years old. Others are more recent.

His childhood, seeming as distant as the sacred realms of Aetherius. That hazy span of years before his descent into the world of brigandry, scarcely remembered. A father he barely knew, just another Nord who went off to die for no godsdamn reason.

His survival in the wilderness among a series of different bandit gangs through his wits, knowledge, and luck, often with only Morven and a few trustworthy others by his side. Doing whatever it took to see another sunrise, whether it be to lie, cheat, steal, or kill – rarely enjoyable, but always necessary in that way of life.

The heartache he felt, and still feels, when he sees a young lithe woman with flaxen hair pass him by on the city streets, or a grizzled older man drinking alone in the corner of an ill-lit tavern, or when he's given mistrustful looks as he travels through a tiny close-knit settlement. Perpetual reminders of things best left alone.

This is life as he has known it. Vagrant. Murderer. Thief. Scum. The sort of man that no person in their right mind would be proud of.

And now… this. That someone such as this would allegedly have a soul consecrated by the gods themselves. Is that not a claim worthy of all the scorn he can muster?

This perception of himself is loathsome and ugly. He has that much self-awareness at least. But to him, it's merely the truth, and he would be remiss not to accept it as such. His fingernails dig into the malleable surface of the table as he sneers mockingly. The last man who was Dragonborn managed to conquer the entire continent and become a god. Talos fucking Stormcrown himself.

And then for this Jarl who sent him to his death to now ask for his loyalty, his oath-given service, no doubt seeing him as the makings of some great hero? Him of all people?

But I'm not a hero! I never have been. I never wanted to be. He hasn't saved a single person in his entire life, but by Shor's bones he has certainly done the opposite. More times than he could ever hope to count, or would ever want to.

It should have been her. Morven should be the one standing here right now, receiving these accolades and promises of a worthy future. Not him.

He knows that he's being irrational. Just imagine it – to become a Thane, a retainer to one of Skyrim's nine Jarls, and thus nearly a nobleman in his own right. What an incredible leap forward that would be for somebody like him. It would be irreconcilably foolish to refuse such an offer, but he just can't bring himself to care about any of that logic.

He doesn't know what to think. He has no clue what to say. His thoughts have been thrown too far askew. He grinds his teeth together, infuriated by his own dumbfounded silence.

With a sudden flash of introspection, he recalls something Joren once said to him shortly after he joined his gang. The last gang before Morven died and his life was ushered into this moribund epilogue.

"You'll never be a leader if you let your frustrations get in your way all the time. I know you're smarter than that, Mull. Even if you don't. You've got that spark in your eye." His black-and-silver beard twitches, as good as a beaming grin from this man. He taps his wrinkled forehead. "You have to let go of those things, even when you don't want to – especially when you don't want to. Clear your head. Fill your lungs with that crisp mountain air. Hit the damn skooma. I don't care, but do whatever you've gotta do to be in total control of yourself. It doesn't matter what it is, just find what works for the moments when a bunch of your folks are getting arrested or killed right in front of your eyes. If you aren't able to take charge inside your own head, then your head is always gonna take charge of you. Remember that, boy."

He leans further over the table, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply. When he gets like this, it's impossible to think about anything clearly. His anger has always been a detriment in that regard. But Joren had a way of seeing these things with a lucidity that few could match. He could make snap judgements in the middle of a fight gone wrong, or whenever their gang's enemies were closing in around them. He was a hell of a leader, but more than that he was simply a well-grounded man. He knew his stuff.

Mull was never able to achieve that same degree of levelheadedness, but… now, he tries. He does his best to take charge of his tumultuous mind and wrangle it into submission. As he does, one question rises from within the turgid depths of his anger. What is it that I really want here?

That's easy. What he wants is to survive. That is and has always been his primary motivation. It comes before all else. And in pursuit of that desire, he's developed a few core tenants over the years. Always watch your back. Never leave a job unfinished. Only trust in people who you know you can trust, and only ever a few at a time. Pay back your debts, no excuses. Don't leave your enemies alive to come after you again.

It all boils down to one thing. Self-sufficiency. Be beholden to no one, except to those whom you voluntarily choose to follow. He is his own man in all things. In a world like the underbelly of Tamrielic society, that's how you make your way.

That mindset is entirely antithetical to everything that has happened since his arrival in Whiterun. Case in point, Irileth threatening to turn him into mincemeat unless he agreed to accompany her to the watchtower. And look at how that turned out. Nearly getting killed by a dragon for the second time this autumn so far.

He's sick of that. The mentality of going along with life's bullshit without trying to fight back is exactly what landed him in this mess in the first place. It's very nearly gotten him killed many times in many different places since his arrival in Skyrim, including at the watchtower.

His pride, such as it is, won't allow this. Burning vindication churns within him. He's greater than this. He should be, and only he can prove the truth of that sentiment. The answer to that question – what is it that I really want? – is now becoming apparent.

"I just want to be a free man. That's all." He opens his eyes – he'd forgotten they were closed – just in time to catch a hint of bafflement in Balgruuf's features. In all fairness, his tired and cheerless response probably isn't what the Jarl had been expecting.

Balgruuf recovers with commendable swiftness and adopts a questioning expression. Hrongar starts to say something but evidently thinks better of it.

Seeing that no further responses are forthcoming, he reluctantly elaborates. "I want the freedom to do what I want to do. I wanted to deliver Riverwood's letter and news of Helgen in order to repay a debt, for the sake of my own pride. I wanted to go to Bleak Falls Barrow so I could find out what happened with the runes – but Farengar still owes me for that shitshow. It turned out to be a hell of a bad idea. Gods know I've lived through plenty of those," he chuckles without humor. "What I didn't want was to go fight that dragon at the watchtower, if that wasn't already fuckin' obvious. I can't stand people I hardly know telling me what I will and will not do."

He pauses. In hindsight, saying that to the Jarl's face might not have been a great idea. At the very least, he definitely should've worded it better.

He isn't sure what he's going to say next until he opens his mouth. "That said, becoming a Thane isn't something I'm dumb enough to refuse. Sure, I'll be your Thane," he continues, "but only if I can do what I want. I won't wait on you hand and foot, regardless of whether I'm sworn to your service or not. If there's something I don't want to do, I have the right to say so and that'll be respected. The decision is mine. I'm my own man and I'll stay that way. Also, unless I'm mistaken you still owe me an assload of gold. I won't be forgetting about that anytime soon, so you shouldn't either. Those are my terms. Take 'em or leave 'em."

He shuts his eyes once more, fully aware that such a demand will absolutely intolerable, and waits for the outrage at his presumptuousness he knows will invariably come.

He doesn't have to wait long.

"…Is that all?"

Huh? Again his eyes open, but this time he's met with an amused grin on Balgruuf's face and a twinkle of merriment in his gaze. Hrongar appears to be similarly jovial. Proventus, Irileth, and Farengar all simply look confused. He can't blame them. "Uh…"

His uncertainty must be plain to see, as Balgruuf and Hrongar's rumbling laughter is soon echoing throughout the room. "Hah! You are Dragonborn, are you not? I expected you'd ask for more! Lands, wealth, women, influence! These things would've been perfectly within your rights to demand."

That isn't at all what he'd been anticipating. Alright… what's happening here?

"Ah…" Balgruuf makes a show of wiping away a tear. "You're Dragonborn, son. Even if you become a Thane in my court, I've no doubt that you would have more pressing concerns than keeping up with the intricacies of Hold politics."

"That isn't exactly-" he starts, but the Jarl cuts him off.

"Rest assured that I wouldn't force such mundane duties upon you. Though if you took up any responsibilities on your own initiative, I would hardly begrudge you that. Anyways, as my presumably newest Thane…" Here, he waits to see Mull's reaction.

Oh, I'm not gonna forgive you so easily Balgruuf. But outwardly he gives a tactful shrug, still busy trying to devise a response.

The Jarl takes that as assent and continues. "…You need merely ask, and whatever you require shall be provided. I understand that my housecarl and I may have dealt with you more harshly than was right in the eyes of the gods – though the circumstances were taxing for all involved, to be sure – so consider this my method of showing goodwill as some small measure of recompense." He leans back in his chair, props his chin against a meaty hand, and watches Mull expectantly.

First things first. "What exactly would be expected from me? I want specifics."

"Of course. Foremost, I desire your oath to defend Whiterun when called upon to do so. I wish for you to serve my Hold, but I also understand that you must go to High Hrothgar. I'm willing to wait until you return before calling upon you to honor that oath."

Defending Whiterun. So nothing I haven't already done, he grumbles to himself. "Let's get something straight. If I'm going to be your Thane, I don't want anyone outside of this room to hear about this Dragonborn business. Too many people knowing who I am could cause a lot of problems. Irileth already threatened the other warriors who were at the watchtower with… what was it, flaying? Flogging? Something like that. Either way, that'll probably keep them quiet. It's good enough for me."

He pretends to ignore the withering glare that the Jarl directs towards Irileth. She wilts beneath his gaze.

"I'd like to retain as much… privacy… as possible." He never quite figured out how to pronounce 'anonymity' in Nordic. Too many syllables.

"That's a given, I think," the Jarl replies with a curt nod. His good cheer diminishes significantly. "Gods know how Ulfric Stormcloak or the Empire would react to such a proclamation, much less the Thalmor. Hoar Father's beard, I can't begin to imagine the political ramifications if they learned that the new Dragonborn has become a Thane of Whiterun. They've been vigorously soliciting my allegiance for some time now, but I don't believe it would take much for them to commit to direct intervention against my Hold. Something like this could easily be the last straw, even for the honorable Jarl Ulfric," he growls. "Our hard-won neutrality would be thrown to the wolves in a fortnight."

Mull is surprised that the Jarl would view this as such a big deal. If the two sides in the Civil War might be willing to invade Whiterun over an issue like the presence of a Dragonborn…

Well, maybe it does make some degree of sense. But it's just so strange to think something involving him could have such far-reaching implications. If someone becomes that problematic, the best solution in my experience is usually to stick a knife in their back and call it a day. Damn… All the more reason to keep my head down, then.

The Jarl broods for a while before returning to the conversation. "Is there anything else?"

On that note… "I'll need somewhere to settle in for the time being. A place that's discreet. Staying in a public building like the guards' barracks or the Sanctuary of Kyne seems like a bad idea."

"Thanes are often expected to dwell in their lord's court, where their needs are provided for in return for their service, but I understand why you might not desire such an arrangement. Very well, I'm sure we can find suitable accommodations for you."

"Great. And don't forget about the gold."

Balgruuf chuckles at that. "You know Dragonborn, you aren't a difficult man to read."

His brow creases as he narrows his eyes. "I'll take that as a compliment."

The Jarl sighs, shakes his head in mock exasperation, and rises from his seat. Avenicci has been animatedly signaling for him to speed things along for a while now. "Unfortunately, it appears that I have other duties to attend to. Not that this isn't supremely important, but there's always something else to worry about. A city to keep, you know. Hrongar will take things from here. I hope that's acceptable."

"Understood."

As the Jarl gathers up his cloak and strides for the door, an idea suddenly occurs to Mull. He isn't sure where it comes from. Perhaps Aela has given him inspiration and he didn't realized it until now. Either way, he decides it can't hurt to ask.

He calls out to Balgruuf just as he's exiting the room. "I have a question, if you'll hear it."

The Jarl stops, turns, and raises an eyebrow.

"…How do you feel about mercenaries?"

-x-

Following the Jarl's answer and departure, Hrongar takes it upon himself to further expound on the Greybeards. "There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards!" he exclaims. "It's a tremendous honor! Ysmir Talos himself was instructed in their sacred ways, and Ysmir Wulfharth before him too! They only accept the most capable of Skyrim's young men and women as their disciples, but as Dragonborn, you are divinely ordained to receive their teachings."

He tells Mull of their ancient monastery perched far atop the slopes of the Throat of the World, only reachable by way of the Seven Thousand Steps – an ancient alpine path believed to be sacred to Kyne. The Seven Thousand Steps were once commonly traversed by pilgrims seeking the goddess' guidance and wisdom, but the practice isn't as popular as it once was. According to the one-armed warrior, Jarl Balgruuf made the journey once upon a time, when he was a much younger man.

"You should go to High Hrothgar as soon as possible. As Dragonborn, you must learn what the Greybreards have to teach you!" Hrongar is ecstatic, like a child seeing a storybook legend come to life.

Mull on the other hand is skeptical. He doesn't imagine he'd get along well with pacifistic monks. His lifestyle up to the present could be called anything but pacifistic.

But Hrongar is adamant, and he firmly extracts a promise from Mull to make the journey to High Hrothgar as soon as he can. His mind is whirling with information by the time he finally escapes from the Jarl's study, escorted back to the great hall below with Irileth at his side.

I will, once I've gotten everything in order and… come to terms with it all. Gods, what a mess.